


a cauldron full of hot, strong love

by zohh



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, Gen, Patsy-centric, Potterverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-06 06:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11030145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zohh/pseuds/zohh
Summary: “We have knowledge that the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has just returned from Azkaban prison where it is learned that notorious mass murderer and high security prisoner Sirius Black has escaped.”Patsy gasps and sinks down into her bed.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> The Potterverse AU that nobody except me asked for, so I had to write it myself.
> 
> (No, not a Hogwarts AU.)

She walks out of the fireplace and brings her wand up with a swirl, the dust and soot disappearing off of her outer cloak. The living room is empty, but by the sound of it she can hear someone climbing up the wooden staircase.

Patsy takes off her red cloak and drapes it over her arm, poking her head out from the doorway. She looks down and sees a trunk at the bottom of the stairs. A smile spreads widely to her lips and without even taking her hat off, she leaps excitedly over the trunk and runs quickly up the staircase.

“I thought I recognized your trunk,” she says breathlessly.

A smaller body turns around and then, “Hello, Pats!”

“Delia only just arrived a few moments ago,” Sister Maria Cynthia says, a stack of books in her arms.

“Yes, and I’m afraid I’ve got quite a lot to tidy away, here. I couldn’t decide which books to bring and which ones to leave, so I just brought them all,” Delia says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Well, good thing that tidying is one of my great specialties,” Patsy says. “Shall I go down and get your trunk?”

“That would be perfect, thank you,” Delia says, taking the books from Sister Mary Cynthia’s arms. 

“Do let me know if you need anymore help,” Sister Mary Cynthia says, “I’m on fire duty this evening, but poor Mrs. Willard went into labor early, and she was our first concern.”

“I can take it from here,” Patsy says, taking off her hat and throwing it and her cloak onto Delia’s bed.

“Yes, thank you sister, for all of your help.”

Sister Mary Cynthia leaves them with a nod and a smile, and then makes her way down to the living room fireplace.

“Did you have a good journey?” Patsy asks, the smile on her face still tugging hard.

“It was alright, I suppose,” Delia says, taking her books and finding homes for them in the space underneath her bedside table. “Mam was insistent upon me taking a ‘safer’ mode of transportation, so I took the Knight Bus into London and then used the Leaky Couldron’s fireplace to get here.”

Patsy grimaces. “That sounds awful. I’ve never liked the Knight Bus.”

“I know,” Delia says, sighing. “But until the Ministry allows for more long distance Floo travel, it’s either that or flying—and Mam would have lost it if I left home on my Nimbus.”

“I still don’t understand why you don’t just apparate,” Patsy says, now smirking.

Delia gets up from where she was organizing her books and stares straight into Patsy’s eyes, her lips pursed. “Patience Mount, you know how hard it is to apparate across country lines, let alone with bags and a big trunk!” Delia glances up at her again. “Speaking of which, weren’t you going to get mine for me?”

Patsy rolls her eyes, ignoring the grin plastered onto Delia’s face, and walks halfway down the stairs. She waves her wand once and the brown trunk begins to rise, following her back up to Delia’s room as if it weighed no more than a feather.

“Thank you, Pats,” Delia says.

*

It isn’t long until Delia’s bedroom is set up to her liking, Patsy being the one to actually get down on her hands and knees like a muggle to organize things while Delia sits on the edge of her bed and lazily flicks her wand around.

“Hold on, I’ve got something for you,” Patsy says, turning on her foot and rushing out of the room. She comes back a moment later, a small glass vase in her hand, holding the bud of an umbrella flower.

“Oh, Pats,” Delia says, taking the vase from her, “it’s lovely!”

Patsy bounces upwards onto her toes. “Fred started growing them, and I managed to snag one from his garden.”

“I hope it doesn’t get too big; mam has them back home and hers take up the whole yard.”

“I’m sure Fred won’t mind if we return this one after its taken up half your bedroom,” Patsy says, grinning.

Delia set the vase on top of her chest of drawers, glaring down at the knobs that are still turning back and forth on their own. “That’s enough, you,” she hisses, bumping into the drawers with her hip. The knobs stop moving.

“You must be tired,” Delia says, now looking at Patsy, still in her uniform of blue robes with a red belt to match her hat and outer cloak.

“If I am, I can’t feel it,” Patsy says, wringing her hands together.

“Come here,” Delia shuffles her feet forward, taking Paty’s hands into her own. She watches Patsy glance to the open doorway, checking to see that no one is coming no doubt. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Patsy whispers, letting Delia tug her into a hug.

“Me too.”

*

“Excuse me, sister!” A small voice squeaks, pointed ears protruding from under the table.

“Yes, Miss B?” Sister Julienne asks, leaning down to talk to the house elf.

“There’s someone waiting in the fire, sister,” Miss B says. Her voice is high pitched and raspy, her eyes large and ears constantly pointed upwards. The tea towel she wears is tied in two neat knots on each of her shoulders, and the logo for St. Mugos in stamped in the right-hand corner.

“That’ll probably be for Mrs. Wyatt,” Phyllis says, pushing her chair out and standing up. “She had complications with her last birth, and I told her husband to give a call at the first sign of labor.” She picks up her empty dinner plate, having been called to work before she could put any of her dinner on it, and sets it down on the countertop. “I’m afraid this pushes you up on the duty queue, Sister Winifred.”

“That’s quite alright,” Sister Winifred says, scooping some potatoes onto her plate before passing the bowl to Trixie. “I have some knitting to finish tonight anyway, for the children’s event next week.”

“Oh dear, I had almost forgotten about that,” Trixie says, taking the bowl while Phyllis heads out of the dining room for the fireplace.

“Children’s event?” Delia asks, looking around the table.

“Oh, yes!” Sister Winifred perks up. “A bunch of organizations are providing things like cloaks and sweaters, second hand books and cauldrons, all for children who have parents in closed wards at hospital, so they can have everything they need for the upcoming school year.”

“That’s a wonderful thing to do,” Delia says. “The whole community getting together and everything. We never really had anything like this back home since most of us didn’t go away to school.”

“You mean you didn’t go off for school?” Sister Winifred asks, cocking her head so that her wimple shakes.

Delia shakes her head. “My dad went to Hogwarts, but mam didn’t want me going off so far away from home, especially with, well, everything that was happening.” She doesn’t say You-Know-Who’s name, but everyone at the table knows what she’s talking about. “We had a schoolhouse in our village, though, and I was able to sit for both of my O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s through a special program.”

“Yes, and now that Delia has come to stay with us, she’s going to put us all to shame with her wit and intelligence, even if she is working in a different ward,” Trixie says, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“Pats is the real chess player,” Delia says, using the side of her fork rather than a knife to cut up her food. “I just got lucky that time we played.”

Miss B the house elf sidles up to the end of the table, something hiding unmistakably behind her back. She tries to hand it off silently to Sister Monica Joan, who looks down eagerly, but Sister Julienne notices before the exchange can become final.

“Sister Monica Joan, what are you doing?”

“I am conversing with our dear elf friend,” she says, head still turned away.

“Sister Monica Joan, is that a piece of the cake we were saving to celebrate Delia’s arrival?”

Patsy turns and beams at Delia, who looks flushed and surprised.

“Cake, for me?” Delia asks, setting her fork down.

“Of course,” Sister Julienne says gently. “We are delighted to have you stay with us, Delia. You are a wonderful young woman, and quite an apt mediwitch, and we couldn’t be happier to provide you a home, and hopefully one day, a family.”

From under the table where no one can see, Patsy reaches over and squeezes Delia’s hand.

“At any rate, however, there may not be cake if Sister Monica Joan continues to conspire with our house elf,” Sister Julienne says, giving the other nun a stern look.

“Foiled!”

*

“Oh, turn it up, Barbara! I love this song!”

“I didn’t know you were a Celestina Warbeck fan, Trixie,” Barbara says, turning up the dial on the radio.

“There are many things about you that you don’t know,” Trixie says coyly. She grabs her wand from her nightstand and taps the deck of the cards; the cards suddenly spring into the air and begin to shuffle themselves.

_Don't you be afraid, come and take a sip_  
_Of this steamy, tasty treat!_  
_What's in my cauldron full of hot, strong love  
Will make your life complete!_

“Are those Exploding Snap cards?” Patsy asks warily.

“Maybe.” Trixie doesn’t look her in the eye.

“The last time you coerced me into a game of Exploding Snap, I lost nearly all my fringe!”

Delia and Barbara exchange a look, laughing.

“I put your hair back right, didn’t I?” Trixie raises her eyebrows. “Besides, I think Sister Monica Joan may have taken my set. There are just plain old muggle cards.”

“They better be,” Patsy mutters, running her fingers through the ginger bangs that lay against her forehead.

“And here I thought the singed look was all the rage!” Delia laughs, letting her shoulder brush against Patsy’s. “Isn’t that what all the kids are wearing these days?”

Patsy rolls her eyes. Celestina Warbeck continues to croon through the speaker of the radio, Trixie swaying along to the music. There's a sort of crackle that cuts off the music, but no one notices at first.

“Oh—wait!” Barbara abruptly stands up, the radio in her arms. Trixie puts her wand down and the cards stop shuffling. “Listen!” She turns the volume up even more and everyone leans in.

“We interrupt the evening music hour on the WWN to bring you this news from the Ministry,” a gruff voice says. “We have knowledge that the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, has just returned from Azkaban prison where it is learned that notorious mass murderer and high security prisoner Sirius Black has escaped.”

Patsy gasps and sinks down into her bed. Delia quickly turns to look at her and opens her mouth to say something, but the voice on the radio continues.

“No word yet on what the Minister has to say on this matter, but we can confirm that guards have already been sent to look for him. A ministry official who refused to make any more comments has at least told us to be on the lookout for a special edition of the Evening Prophet for more information…” 

Barbara turns down the volume dial, her lip quivering. “I…I suppose I should go see Sister Julienne. She probably doesn’t know yet.” She leaves the bedroom, radio still in her arms, legs shaking.

“Patsy,” Trixie says gently. “Are you alright?”

Patsy blinks. She can feel Delia close to her, warm with the smell of the umbrella flower that she had given her lingering on the other girl’s clothes. Patsy swallows and then says, “Yes. Yes I’m perfectly fine. Shall we go downstairs to see if an owl has come with the paper?”

“I’ll do it,” Trixie says at once, standing up. She tries to give a reassuring smile to Delia, but it falters, and turns away hastily.

After a few seconds of silence, Delia opens her mouth. “Pats? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Patsy brushes off a bit of fuzz from her dressing gown. “I’m fine, Delia.”

“Do you want—”

“I said I’m fine!” Patsy snaps. She sees Delia pull in her lower lip and her expressions softens a little. “There’s no point in worrying until we’ve heard what Fudge has to say on this matter,” she says. “For all we know, Black could be in Canada right now.”

Delia reaches out to touch Patsy’s hand, but pulls away. She stands up from the bed, smoothing out her own dressing gown and says, “Okay.” She turns to walk out of the doorway but then says, “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.”

Patsy nods, thinning her lips. When she knows the Delia is down the hallway in her own bedroom, she buries her head in her hands.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my dad for giving me his laptop after mine died and for his company for giving him a work laptop so he could give me his in the first place.

Spring, 1990

She’s been on the spell damage floor long enough that most cases don’t faze her anymore. Hexes gone wrong and cursed articles of clothing, kids who have stolen their parents wands and jabbed their siblings until great, purple-headed warts appeared on their legs, and even a middle-aged man who came in with his shirt on backwards, hair a shocking color of pink, and no teeth in his mouth so that when he talked he drooled like a baby.

She doesn’t normally pay mind to the other floors and wards, not out ignorance or a feeling of superiority for working with spell damage, but rather because she simply doesn’t have the time (or even the energy) to go to the other floors and get sucked into their hustle and bustle. She enjoys the healers and other mediwtiches and mediwizards she works with, and feels a sort of sense of accomplishment each day when she returns to the witches’ side of the proffered hospital housing—a sense that she has completed her given tasks and fulfilled her duties.

It’s nearing the end of her shift, the sun hanging low in the sky and casting a golden light through the windows scattered along the hallways. Patsy rounds a corner, quill and parchment in her hands, her green robes fluttering along her shins as she walks.

The doors to the ward open with a crash and Patsy nearly jumps, stumbling over her own feet. She steadies herself and looks up, craning her head to see who made the noise.

A young looking man with a square set jaw and robes askew comes hobbling in, his short wand clutched tightly in one hand and his legs curved and jiggling. He manages to make it all the way to the waiting area where a row of chairs is placed against one of the walls.

“I need to see a healer,” he says, clinging onto the arm rests of a chair while his legs wobble, wand still pointed upwards.

Patsy nods and comes closer to the young man. “Of course, yes.” She looks down, already assessing in her mind what jinx has been used on the gentleman in front of her. “If you come with me, I can—”

“A proper healer,” he says, noticing the darker green coloring of her robes that differentiates the healers from the mediwitches.

Patsy straightens up, her eyebrows raising and lips pursing. “I’m a trained and qualified mediwitch, and more than capable of sorting you out of this situation.” She turns her head to the side and then says, “Jelly-legs jinx, I presume?”

He frowns and then mutters, “Yes.”

“And can you tell me why you didn’t try the counter-jinx?”

The man gives a great sigh and stuffs his wand into the pocket of his robes. “Can I sit down?”

Patsy smiles. “Of course. Come on back to the examination room with me. Can you walk on your own, or do you need help?” She offers out her arm but the man refuses, pushing it away.

“Look, miss, I don’t have all day, so if you c—”

“Oh no, I’m sorry sir,” Patsy says earnestly, “but you must come into the examination room to receive treatment, not to mention fill out the forms.”

He nearly topples over, legs still wobbly. “Fine. Fine!”

Patsy smiles again. “Thank you. And if you do as I ask, this won’t take long.”

He follows Patsy to the nearest examination room, shuffling along the floor and slapping his hands against the wall to prevent himself from falling.

It takes less than twenty minutes for Patsy to formally diagnose him with an improperly yet powerfully done Jelly-legs jinx and to then give him the all purpose counter-jinx potion that was brewed only that morning and constantly kept in full stock for situations like this one.

“Perhaps next time you won’t go and gamble away your savings with goblins and prevent your girlfriend from jinxing you again,” Patsy says, another smile spread onto her face as she escorts the square jawed man out of the ward. A healer coming out of a supply closet overhears this, glancing at the two, and snickers loudly.

“I hope I never have to see you again,” he says under his breath.

“Oh, me too!” Patsy shoes him out of the ward with one final push.

“Oh, cripes,” a voice says from behind her. “That’s the third time in the last month that man has been in here.”

“Really?” Patsy turns around and looks across at Healer Strout.

“Yes,” she says, shaking her head. “He’s always getting himself jinxed or hexed by that girlfriend of his. Frankly, I can’t blame her for doing it, he’s a right old bludger and if I hadn’t taken an oath, I would consider refusing treatment for him.”

Patsy tries to stifle her laughter and covers her mouth with her hands.

*

She’s finally, _finally_ , done with her shift. Not that she’s particularly tired or irritated; the finality of leaving and bidding a farewell to her relief always makes her feel a bit more lightweight and airy, like she could float up into the air on a hover charm.

But the other mediwitch who’s on the night shift doesn’t arrive at her scheduled time. Patsy looks down at the watch attached to a front pocket of her robe and frowns. Mediwitch Healy was normally prompt, sometimes even arriving early so that she overlapped with the other person, a sort of baton pass of shifts. In hindsight she doesn’t mind terribly having to stay a few extra minutes late—she knows that Delia is working overnight as well, and she was hoping to give a quick greeting before leaving for the hospital-housing site.

But then Delia doesn’t arrive either, and Patsy knows that something must be amiss.

She peeks into the fourth floor worker’s lounge; the fireplace is off, owing to the warm spring air, and the room is empty save for a teakettle that keeps rocking back and forth. A patient with bat wings protruding from his back is being escorted down the hallway by another mediwizard; Patsy ignores this and walks in the opposite direction until she runs into Healer Strout.

“Oh! Patsy!”

“Whatever is the matter? You look absolutely flustered.”

Healer Strout is panting, her face flush and eyes wide. “We have to close the ward—the floor, completely.”

“What? Why?” 

“Quick—a chap came into the first floor. Undiagnosed werewolf bite. And—”

“It’s a full moon tonight,” Patsy finishes for her. 

“Yes,” Healer Strout nods, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep breath.

“Where do you need me?” Patsy asks. “With patients?”

“No, I have Healer Douglas and trainee Healer Godfrey taking care of them. What I need is for you to secure the front entrance of the ward, can you do that?”

“Of course,” Patsy says, giving a short nod. She tamps down the fear bubbling up inside of her, pushing it down from where it threatens to spew out of her mouth, whether it be in the form of a moan or a cry or even vomit. She swallows. She has a job to do, a duty to perform.

She walks swiftly away from Healer Strout and sees the trainee Healer Godfrey ushering more patients out of waiting area and into the examination rooms. She reaches into her pocket and feels for her wand, the smooth chestnut wood against her palm a comfort to her.

Patsy walks out into the entrance to the spell damage floor and closes her eyes, concentrating on trying to hear anything from the floors below her. All she can hear is her heart pounding and a soft ringing in her ears. 

_Alright, Patience_ , she thinks to herself. _No time for cracking out. Let’s get on_.

Patsy raises her wand, mouth closed, and silently projects a shield charm across the entranceway, and then a repellent charm. She takes a second out of the chaos to admire her handiwork; nonverbal spell casting had always been a specialty of hers, mastering the concept long before the rest of her classmates did.

She begins to magic the chairs in the waiting room, moving them around to make a sort of barricade—not that she thinks a barricade of chairs will be a great defense should a werewolf make its way into the ward, but the extra, small protection makes her feel better, if only slightly.

And then she hears a scream break through her concentration.

“Merlin!” Patsy jumps, dropping her wand on the floor where it lands on its point and sends up sparks. She quickly bends down and picks it up, fingers tight around it as she points it in front of her. She feels herself begin to tremble and stiffens her stance.

There’s another scream and Patsy almost flinches, breathing fast through her nose.

She tries to clear her head, to push away all thoughts and fears and anxiety, but Delia’s face keeps pushing its way into Patsy’s head, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t get rid of the nagging fear that somehow, Delia is caught up in this mess. 

It feels like hours, long, anguished hours, before Patsy’s breathing slows down and she lowers her wand. She hasn’t heard anything else coming from outside the ward, and Healer Strout hasn’t come to her with anymore news.

She’s just about to turn around and find the healer in charge when she hears a loud bang from outside the ward. Patsy snaps her head around and throws her arm out in front of her.

Something breaks through her protective enchantments and heads towards her. Patsy hurdles out a silent disarming spell and three men fall backwards, wands flying up into the air and landing on the floor with a clatter.

“Merlin’s beard!”

Patsy inches closer to the men, wand still pointed at them.

“Who are you? What are you doing on my ward?”

One of the men starts to sit up and says gruffly, “You can lower your wand.”

Patsy eyes him, knuckles white, until she notices that one of them is wearing a Ministry robe. She lowers her wand and quietly mutters, “Sorry.”

“We just came up here to let you know that the situation is under control,” the middle man says, helping the Ministry robe man up. “Cold you get our wands for us?”

Patsy doesn’t say anything as she picks up the three wands from the floor and hands them over. Her heart is still pounding deep in her chest.

“Where’s the healer in charge?” The first man asks.

“Back with our patients. She sent me to secure the ward.” Patsy nods her head back towards where the examination rooms are.

“Not a bad choice,” the third man says. “I almost couldn’t get through you charms.”

Patsy thins her lips, unable to smile. “Were there any injuries?” She asks.

“Thankfully no,” he says. “Beg your pardon, miss, but we really do need to speak to the healer in charge.”

“Right, of course,” Patsy says, pocketing her wand. “Come this way.”

 

*

She always sat in the front row of her classes, blonde hair tied up neatly so as to not get in her way while she took notes. Her determination to not fall behind and prove her worth as an English girl in a predominately French school helped to surge her to the top of her class; by the end of her first year at Beauxbatons, she had mastered the French language almost completely, and had even begun to dapple in Spanish, owing to the rather prominent amount of students from Spain who also attended the school.

While she had an inkling of knowledge behind the reason why her father chose to send her to Beauxbatons rather than Hogwarts, she never asked, choosing instead to keep her head steady and do as she was told. Her father looked down proudly at her before she departed for her first year, saying, “Be good, Patience. Show them what you can accomplish.”

So Patsy entered the imposing castle, frightened to her core but refusing to show it. Her teachers, knowing nothing of her past or why she was there instead of Hogwarts, showed no leniency towards her. Along with having to memorize spells and theories and potion ingredients, she also had to learn a completely new language (she wished, oh she wished someone would talk to her, try to understand her, but she never asked, never wanting to draw attention to herself).

Professor Maxime, her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, was the only one to allow Patsy to submit her essays in English, at least for her first year. Patsy was forever grateful for this, and often found herself lingering after the large woman’s classes, stopping to ask questions and learn more. 

It was in her fourth year that Patsy started to practice nonverbal magic. Professor Maxime had mentioned in passing that they wouldn’t be starting it until at least their fifth year, depending on how well they were progressing with their coursework, and that some witches and wizards simply couldn’t do nonverbal magic, at least not nearly as well as they could verbally. Patsy was intrigued by this—by the idea of being able to just wave her wand without having to say anything and have a hex or charm erupt from the end of her wand. She had watched her father over the years conjure up chairs and sift away dirt just with a simple flick or wave, and she knew that she just absolutely had to conquer that part of magic.

They had just finished taking notes on shield charms, Patsy’s hair kept back in a sleek ponytail, when Professor Maxime tells them to partner up so they can practice it.

Patsy turns to the girl next to her, a petit brunette with glasses named Carlota Marchal, and they both nod in an agreement to work together. Professor Maxime waves her wand and all of the desks disappear, leaving the room wide open for practicing.

They both face each other and raise their wands. Carlota moves her right foot just slightly forwards, and as she opens her mouth to shout out a disarming spell, Patsy quickly moves her arm, mouth shut, silently casting a shield charm.

The disarming spell bounces off of the invisible shield and Patsy stands their, firm, with her wand still in her hand. Carlota opens her mouth, gaping, staring.

“Professeur! Professeur!” Carlota shouts.

Professor Maxime walks over to the pair, her black robes clung to her legs, the floor shaking underneath of her weight. 

“Quoi? Is everything alright?”

Carlota points to Patsy, who is giving a shaky smile, turning her wand over and over in her hand.

“Patience?” Professor Maxime looks down at her, eyes dark, brilliant opal earrings shining in the afternoon light coming through the classroom windows.

“I—I tried to do it nonverbally, professor,” Patsy says, immediately looking down at the ground.

Professor Maxime tilts her head and then asks, “Well, did it work?”

Patsy nods. “I think so.”

“ _Magnifique_ , Patience!”

Carlota Marchal crosses her arms and Patsy smiles again.

*

When Patsy gets back to her room in the hospital dormitories, she changes out of her robes and into her dressing gown, but she doesn’t go to sleep. Instead she paces back and forth, rubbing her hands together, waiting for Delia to get back. She’s exhausted, utterly and completely exhausted, but she refuses to stop, refuses to take a break and sit. If she keeps walking, she keeps moving, the gnawing thoughts can’t encompass her, can’t suffocate her, so she checks her watch, glances out at the full moon from her window, and walks.

The sun is making its first appearance through the tops of the trees by the time Patsy sits down on the edge of bed. She waits, feet shuffling on the floor, until she hears a soft knock and the door to her room open slowly.

Immediately, Patsy springs up. Delia closes the door behind her, shrugging off her cloak and letting it fall to the floor.

“Oh, Pats!”

They embrace each other, eyes closed. Patsy pulls her closer, closer, and Delia sighs.

“What happened? Were you already in the hospital? Was there any damage? I Apparated out of the ward as soon as the Ministry official told me it was safe to leave.” Patsy fires off her questions in rapid succession, holding Delia in front of her with her arms on her shoulders.

“Slow down, Pats. Have you been up all night?”

“Maybe.”

Delia frowns. “Come sit down, please.”

Patsy lets her move her to the bed where the both sit, Delia in her uniform and Patsy in her pyjamas.

“I should be the one who is worried,” Delia says. “I was still on the ground floor when they told us an undiagnosed werewolf was on one of the wards. They closed it off immediately but they said he had managed to get up to one of the upper wards.”

“That explains the screaming,” Patsy says.

Delia nods. “A healer got to him before anything serious could happen. He was stunned and then some Ministry officials showed up.”

“I knew about the Ministry,” Patsy says. “I attacked three of them.”

“What? Pats!”

“I didn’t necessarily mean to!” Patsy says defensively. “Healer Strout had me secure the entrance to our floor, and they broke through and I sort of just…threw a spell at them. They were only disarmed,” she adds quickly.

Delia laughs, her dimples showing through her smile. “I wanted to see you before I started my shift, but you had already left.”

“I’m sorry,” Patsy says. “I wanted to see you too, to make sure that you were alright.”

Delia leans against her, shoulder to shoulder. “I was fine, Pats. Honestly. A werewolf is no match for Delia Busby.”

Patsy rolls her eyes and Delia reaches her arm over, squeezing her had. Patsy’s breath hitches in her chest and she looks over at the other woman. Suddenly she feels very warm and sleepy.

“You should get some rest,” Delia finally says. “Merlin knows I’m exhausted, you must be too.”

“Do you want to get a late lunch before shift this evening?” Patsy asks quietly.

Delia smiles again, shows off her dimples again. “That would be lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks are important, yo.
> 
> Also, I used Google translate for all of the French. My chapters are a little shorter than what I normally write, so I apologize for that.
> 
> (In terms of Healers vs Mediwitches/wizards: the magical equivalent of a doctor in the Potterverse is a Healer, but JKR doesn't say if there's a nurse equivalent. I feel like in the Potterverse everyone would just be a Healer, but for this AU, I felt that it was important for their to be a distinction since the characters on the show are specifically nurses, hence my use of Mediwitch.)


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i am alive and so is this fic.

Patsy wakes up early, earlier than Trixie who’s still as a log on the bed next to her, and it takes her a moment to gather her bearings and remember the events of the night before. Her head feels heavy and she curls her legs towards her chest, digging the heel of her palms into her closed eyes. She lets out a breath and then stretches back out.

She had followed the news stories of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers since she was a young girl, reading The Prophet after her father had finished with it and even taking out a subscription when she was away at school. While some of her classmates had known about the war, it was mostly in passing—small snippets they had heard about from their parents and professors of a mad dark wizard wreaking havoc in Britain. It was geographically close to them yet so foreign and far away that Patsy seldom brought it up when she was at school.

She was in her fourth year at school when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished and Harry Potter was hailed as The Boy Who Lived, and it was like a weight was lifted off of her body and she could breathe and live again. She visited England for the first time in ten years with her father that winter holiday.

But now Sirius Black was out of Azkaban and it was like that weight was back, sitting on her chest and crushing her very being.

She knew the story, of course, of how Sirius Black had murdered that poor man and those innocent muggles, how he was a Death Eater in the inner circle. Only a powerful dark wizard could have blasted off a curse like that and that’s what Black was: a powerful, dark wizard.

Patsy closes her eyes again and rolls over. She can hear the nuns rising for their morning prayers and when she opens her eyes, the sun is peeking through the coverings of the window and the room is lighter. Trixie is still fast asleep.

Reluctantly she gets up, dressing in her work robes quietly and padding out of the room.

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she’s surprised to hear a voice coming from the sitting room. Patsy furrows her brows and edges around the corner, craning her head only to see Sister Julienne huddled in front of the fireplace, her wimple bobbing as she talks.

“Yes, thank you. I’m sure I will be in touch with you later today.”

There’s a soft pop and Sister Julienne Stands back up. She doesn’t turn around and Patsy shifts, the floor creaking beneath her feet.

Sister Julienne turns around at the sound and Patsy gives up, making her way into the sitting room.

“Good morning, Patsy,” Sister Julienne says with a smile. “You’re up early.”

“I thought I’d get a head-start on things,” Patsy tries to smile back but it’s strained. She tries to make her way out of the room, towards the kitchen, but Sister Julienne holds up a hand and stops her.

“How are you?” She asks.

“I’m fine, Sister.”

Sister Julienne doesn’t try to verbally dispute this, but her eyes tell Patsy that she knows she’s lying.

Patsy sighs. Sister Julienne could always see through her. “Has the Ministry released anymore information?”

“Not yet,” Sister Julienne says. “But I just spoke with Healer Turner, and he said the hospital is going to enhance its security.”

Patsy furrows her brows. “How so?”

“From what he knows, they’re thinking of using Azkaban guards,” Sister Julienne says gravely. She isn’t quite frowning but her features lower and her shoulders tense, just a little.

Patsy’s eyes widen at the thought of having to pass by Dementors anytime she visits the hospital.

“If St. Mungo’s agrees to this,” Sister Julienne continues, “then there is a chance they will want to extend that security to us. Normally I would be grateful at the gesture, but…given the nature of said security, I will say that I am both hesitant and reluctant.”

“Does the Ministry really think that Black would come here? To a convent?” Patsy asks, voice barely above a whisper. She’s trying to stay calm, to keep a solid demeanor while talking to the head sister, but her insides feel like someone let loose a Cornish pixie.

Sister Julienne shakes her head.

“Patsy, I know this must be hard for you, but if there’s anything we can do, please let me know.”

“There’s really not much any of us can do, except to keep moving forward,” Patsy says, trying to smile again.

Sister Julienne shifts forward, pauses, and then turns her head so that her wimple shakes.

“Patsy, can I ask…who else knows about what happened?”

Patsy’s mouth twitches and she bites back a sarcastic remark. “Not many others.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to contact the Ministry, to see if perhaps this is a case they may be willing to reopen?”

“I couldn’t give you a name of who did, sister,” Patsy says, looking anywhere but at her superior’s calm and earnest face, “The Ministry was flooded with reports and attacks at the time. We weren’t even in England. When they found out, they waved it off to the Chinese Ministry. No one wanted to get involved.”

A moment of silence passes before Sister Julienne looks Patsy square in the face and says, “I’m sorry.”

Patsy’s third attempt at a smile comes off as a pained grimace. “I thought that it would get easier after You-Know-Who’s downfall. But now that I’m away from the walls of my childhood and school, now that one of his worst followers has escaped…who knows what else is out there? Waiting for us?”

Sister Julienne moves to take Patsy’s hands in her own, sharing a strength that Patsy didn’t know she needed until now.

“We don’t know, and perhaps in this lifetime we never will. But I urge you to stay strong, and to remember that God and your magic will see you through this.”

Patsy nods. Her face feels flushed and a rush of gratitude soars through her body.

“Thank you, sister.”

*

Winter, 1983 

They’re staying at a hotel in London for the holiday.

Her father said he had business to take care of in Britain and had sent her an owl in the last week before her school break that they would be celebrating in London as apposed to their home in Hong Kong.

Patsy didn’t mind. She likes London, likes the buildings and the people and the accents that sounded like her own.

The hotel they’re staying in is across the street from Diagon Alley on the muggle side. It’s muggle owned as well, but the top floor, Patsy notices, seems to be inhabited only by wizards. They also seem to have their own, private room for their Christmas dinner, accompanied by other Gringotts workers and Ministry officials. 

Patsy doesn’t question it, though, and spends the dinner next to her father, listening to him talk about the Wimbourn Wasps latest match and whether or not England has a shot at the playoffs for the World Cup.

“Do you fly at all, Miss Patsy?”

Patsy looks up from her plate. She’s the youngest one at the table; most of the people her father works with are either unmarried or childless. The man speaking to her is older with a receding hairline, his robes lined with gold that clearly show off his wealth.

“I took lessons in my first year,” she says, setting down her fork. “I’m afraid I didn’t take to it very well.”

The man gives a hearty laugh and Patsy doesn’t say anything else.

“Patience is excellent with charm work,” Mr. Mount says proudly. Patsy smiles up at him. “And not a bad dueler, either,” he adds.

“Oho! A dueler, eh?”

Patsy purses her lips before saying, “I have a very good Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.”

“Who do they have now at Hogwarts?” Another man calls out, goblet in his hand. “Old Merrythought isn’t still there, is she?”

“Oh no, no,” Mr. Mount says. “She retired before I started.”

“Besides, I don’t think Patsy attends Hogwarts, is the right?” The first man turns to her, questioning.

Patsy shakes her head. “Beauxbatons.”

“Best in her class,” her father says, raising his goblet.

Patsy smiles awkwardly, wishing they would go back to talking about broomsticks and Quidditch instead of about her.

*

It’s the day before New Year’s Eve when Patsy and her father make their way to Diagon Alley. She watches, eyes squinting, as he briskly taps a brick wall outside of the Leaky Cauldron with his wand. He smiles at her as the bricks move to create an opening for them to walk through.

The cobblestone street is bustling with holiday shoppers and kids out of school for the break; Patsy had only ever been to Diagon Alley twice before and doesn’t remember it ever being this busy.

They weave their way around the shoppers, happy and laughing, until they end up in front of Gringotts.

“I should only be about an hour, maybe two. The Goblin Liaison office can be a bit slow to start,” her father says. He reaches into his inner robe and pulls out a small pouch of coins. “Fancy yourself some new dress robes?”

Patsy smiles, taking the pouch and holding it the palms of her hands. “Thanks, dad.”

He squeezes her shoulder gently and then walks into the bank.

Patsy pockets the pouch into her own cloak and pulls her scarf tighter to keep out the chill; the air is crisp and there a small piles of snow lining the road.

She window-shops, mostly, the gold hanging heavily in her pocket. She walks past the broomstick shop without bothering to stop, having no need to peek at the new Cleansweep model, but does stop in front of Eyelops Owl Emporium to stare longingly at a pearly white, snowy owl. The owl ruffles it feathers behind the window, straightening itself on the perch it’s sitting on, and Patsy tilts her head, blonde hair falling over her shoulder.

She knows, in her heart of hearts, that she would hate having an owl—the constant flying in and out of rooms, the hooting, the talons, the mess. Animals are not her thing; but she still loves the idea of having a companion with her while she’s away at school.

In the end, she doesn’t even go into the shop. Beuaxbaton provides owls for students to use. She doesn’t need one.

Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions is relatively empty when Patsy walks by so she does a double take, steps backwards, and walks in.

“Hello dear,” Madam Malkin says, turning her head from where she’s adjusting robes on a young looking wizard, no older than Patsy. “I’ll be right with you in a moment.”

Patsy doesn’t say anything and gives a polite nod instead. A majority of the shop is filled with Hogwarts school robes, cloaks and scarves delineating the different houses lining the walls.

Beauxbatons doesn’t have houses, not like Hogwarts does. She remembers stories her father would tell her when she was younger, before she started school, about his youthful days in Slytherin. School Prefect, president of the Gobstones club (which he would say proudly), and he even made the Slytherin Quidditch team as a beater in his seventh year.

Her mother had been a Gryffindor, fiery to the core, and one-upped her father by becoming Head Girl. The two had met when her father was a seventh year and her mother a fifth year, both stuck in the library studying for their N.E.W.T. and O.W.L exams, respectfully.

Patsy looks away from the Hogwarts robes, pushing thoughts of her mother out of her mind. 

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

Patsy turns around to see Madam Malkin standing behind her, pincushion floating next to her head.

“A new set of dress robes, perhaps,” Patsy says.

Madam Malkin squints. “Are you a Hogwarts student?”

Patsy shakes her head. It’s a question she gets every time she’s in Britain. “I attend Beauxbatons Academy.”

Suddenly, Madam Malkin’s eyes go wide and she says, “Oh! You must be Samuel Mount’s daughter.”

“You know my father?” Patsy asks.

“I knew your mother,” Madam Malkin says, smiling sadly. “She worked in my shop the summer after she finished school.”

“Oh.” Patsy swallows. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. Well.” Madam Malkin claps her hands together and the floating pincushion bounces. “Let’s find you some new dress robes, shall we? Anything special coming up?”

*

Patsy leaves the robe shop with a set of pale blue robes. She has no immediate need for them, but with her father’s work and no one else to attend functions with him, she’s sure she’ll have an occasion in the upcoming months.

She’s about to head back up the side street, towards Flourish and Blotts, when she stops herself. To her left is Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions, and Patsy, against her better judgment, walks into the shop.

She had never been inside of Madam Primpernelle’s before, never even ordered through owl delivery service, choosing instead to purchase all of her skin care potions back in France, closer to school.

Madam Primpernelle is standing behind a low counter when Patsy walks in. Her hair falls down her face in perfect, blonde waves, and her lips are a deep red shade.

“Afternoon, love. Can I help you?”

Patsy grips the bag that her robes are in tightly. She thinks back to what Madam Malkin told her, how her mother spent a summer working in her shop, and she feels in ache deep in her chest. She looks at Madam Primpernelle’s blonde waves, thinks about her own blonde hair, and exhales.

“Do you have any potions for dying hair, per chance?”

*

When she returns to France after the new year, Carlotta Marchal is the first one to say anything. They’re in their dormitory, unpacking, when the smaller girl turns to her and reaches a hand up.

“J’aime tes cheveux roux, Patience.”

Patsy lets her touch the ends of her hair and her breath catches in her chest.

“Merci,” she says quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> congratulations you now know a little bit more about patsy yay. if i can get my shenanigans together and not take six months to update again, you'll get more patsy/delia scenes soon(ish).

**Author's Note:**

> Off to a slow start, but I wanted to just sort of establish things before really getting into the plot. I will be taking some things off the series that happen in seasons four, five, and six and weaving them in here so as to still try and keep the characters true to themselves. 
> 
> Also, please be warned that I am an American, and everything I know about British culture and language I have learned from Harry Potter, Call the Midwife, and Jane Austen. If you feel that the styling is too Americanized, shoot me a message with some critiques and I will be happy to edit.


End file.
